e so
ostentatious in his egotism as the Prince de Ligne, who headed the
chapters in his "Memoires et Melanges," "De moi pendant le jour," "De
moi pendant la nuit," "De moi encore," "Memoirs pour mon coeur"; still
he parades himself on every possible occasion, and not always to his own
advantage. His conduct in passing himself off as a single man in an
English family who were kind to him during his exile, thereby engaging
the daughter's affections, is entirely inexcusable. That a person of
Madame Recamier's good judgment did not perceive the discredit that must
attach to such revelations is only to be accounted for by supposing her
blind to Chateaubriand's follies. But with all her partiality, it is
still surprising that she should have given her sanction to his
deliberate and cold analysis of the character of his parents, and his
equally heartless and selfish reflections on his marriage.

Chateaubriand married simply to please his sisters, feeling that he "had
none of the qualifications of a husband," and for years he seemed
entirely oblivious of his wife's existence. After he gave up his
wandering life, and became distinguished, he treated her with more
consideration. Madame de Chateaubriand was a pretty, delicate woman, of
quick natural intelligence. M. Danielo, Chateaubriand's secretary, has
written an interesting sketch of her, which is affixed to her husband's
memoirs. She was a person of eccentric habits, but of a warm heart and
lively sensibilities, and was devoted to her religious duties and the
Infirmary of Maria Theresa. She professed a great contempt for
literature, and asserted that she had never read a line of her husband's
works; but this was regarded as an affectation. Madame de Chateaubriand
was not an amiable person, but very frank and sincere. She often
reproached herself for her faults and love of contradiction. Though she
appears to have loved her husband, she was not blind to his weaknesses,
and he was afraid of her sallies. So vain and sensitive a man could not
feel comfortable in the society of a woman of her keen penetration, and
her wit was not always tempered by discretion. Madame Recamier gained by
the contrast. She believed in him, and "there are few things so
pleasant," says a writer in Fraser, "as to have a woman at hand that
believes in you." Madame Recamier's insight never disturbed
Chateaubriand, for it was of the heart, not of the intellect. It was not
a critical analysis that probes an